6 o’ clock and I make excellent bedfellows, each of us historically sharing the understanding that the other is not be disturbed. For me, this hour has always been the domain of insomniacs, revellers, the accidentally awoken and that odd group for whom it is a welcome part and parcel of their natural biorhythm. My personal introduction to this last group goes by the name of Dave.
It might be a plausible time if I were still in India where it is wise to enjoy the relative comfort of the early morning before the furnace day wilts the body into limp submission. But 6am in January in the north-west of England is no mean feat. Ever since I can remember January and February have been the double-dip nadir of the region’s annual meteorological gala of wind, rain in all its varied and splendid forms, and that fortnight of summer that creeps forward each year. Bitter memories of standing in the school playground, the wind biting through my school-issue, pavement grey jumper with the three school colours running around the collar like an austerity-era rainbow. The Vince-Cable knit.
This temple of learning also doubled as a man factory: you go in a boy; come out a man. And one of the first, and most effective, manufacturing processes centred on swimming. We had a pool, although from a close distance it had the shape of a PoW dormitory and resembled a moss and fungus clad medium-scale polytunnel. The pool had a changing section. But we weren’t allowed to change in the changing section. Instead, we were instructed to kit out in the main gym changing rooms at one end of the school and march across the playground in our trunks to the pool on the other side of the school. On a hot day this could be quite pleasant, but, as mentioned previously, I live in the north-west of England and we don’t see many hot days. So one of my enduring childhood memories is running to the pool through a blanket of wind, rain, hail or a combination of all three with nothing to shield my delicate pre-pubescent complexion but a pair of BHS budgie smugglers. The abrasive north wind tanning my cheeks to a lobster hue. However, such trials were feather tickles in comparison to the return journey when the pores in the skin were open and ready to gulp in the cold. It may have helped shape me into a man, but it didn’t feel like it at the time. Mind you, I couldn’t feel anything at the time, especially my fingers.
Given such exempla and my long-held belief that any day beginning before 7 could never be a good day, I was astounded to find myself facing the prospect of lifting my bottom out of bed at 6 o’clock. Not for necessity (job) or reward (holibobs!), but to swim. What’s more, I’ve managed this miracle twice so far.
My first attempt at 6 o’clock came on Wednesday. Bleary-eyed, my brain roused the dangling figure for which it had partial control and motioned it towards the window to survey the day. On drawing the curtains the city raspberried a bleak, dark, sodden gust of cold reality through my semi-conscious confidence. I squinted into the hitherto unseen extra-dimensional basement of the nadir and it squinted back in disgust. I turned away and looked at the cat who was very pleased to see that his breakfast and morning rubs were to be a good deal more prompt and in-keeping with the service he had received while holidaying at the aforementioned Dave’s. The presence of a relaxed, purring and well-fed (the first two dependent on the last) cat is a difficult position from which to tear yourself away, but I didn’t get up at this forsaken hour just to tend to Phillip (T. cat). In record time I gathered my gear and ventured out into the darkness. It was cold. And as I drew closer to the pool those sweet school memories came crawling back, and with them the temperature dropped. Still, my efforts would not be in vain if the pool was quiet and I got in a good session. I was to receive neither. The main pool was being used by the water polo team leaving the 25m diving pool as the only option to surprisingly large number of nutjobs who wanted to swim before work (later inspection of the pool timetable confirmed that Wednesday mornings are the busiest of the week). As I squeezed a spot in the middle lane for middle speed swimmers I soon realised that my body was revolting. Against my brain, that is. I was resting after every two lengths. My body couldn’t muster the energy to keep on going. My breathing was laboured. I was tired; I hadn’t even started.
Naturally such a valiant display spurred me on to try again this morning, reprising the kind of pig-headedness that motivated me to take A-Level maths despite a complete absence of any sound aptitude for the subject. I found this morning to be a very different morning. The streets were calm, dark and quiet Edward Hopper scenes. I had porridge for breakfast, not cereal. I was wearing a different tie. These changes portended a change in the quality of my swim. The whole 50m pool was open and, though it was busy, there was space enough for all. I jumped in and banished all thoughts of last week’s failure out of my head. The initial 5 lengths (equivalent to the 10 lengths on Wednesday) were tough, but I pushed on right through until I completed a mile.
Maybe 6am and I aren’t all that different after all.
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